THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


LONE-STAR    LIGHTS 


LONE-STAR    LIGHTS 


BY 

BELLE    HUNT   SHORTRIDGE 


WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

JAMES   McCARROLL 


NEW   YORK 

BELFORD    COMPANY,    PUBLISHERS 
18-22  EAST  EIGHTEENTH  STREET 

[Publishers  of  Belford^s  Magazine] 


COPYRIGHT,  1890, 
BY  BELLE  HUNT  SHORTRIDGE. 


P5- 
518J18 


TEXAS! 

EMPIRE  majestic,  with  thy  head  so  proud, 
Pillowed  on  mountain  heights  of  snow  and  cloud  ; 
And  kingly  feet  laved  by  the  tepid  tide 
Of  Aztec  waters,  sun- kissed,  free  and  wide! 
Realm  of  eternal  Spring  and  blessedness, 
Of  flower's  breath,  and  mock-bird  songs  that  cease 
Not,  all  the  golden  months  of  all  the  year! 
Land  of  cerulean  sky,  low-dipped,  and  clear! 
Oh,  prairies  boundless,  breeze-tossed,  cattle-nipped! 
Oh,  hidden  streams,  translucent  and  deer-sipped! 
Oh,  sweet  hills  verdant-footed,  purple-hazed! 
Oh,  fields  of  cotton-snow  and  golden  maize, 
Oh,  valleys  of  low-lying,  blue-green  wheat, 
Up  where  the  mesa  and  the  cold  waves  meet! 
What  wonder  that  men's  blood  leapt  forth,  to  flow 
Chivalric,  for  thee,  at  the  Alamo  ? 
Land  of  my  birth,  and  soul's  intensest  love! 
Dear  is  thy  soil,  thy  calm,  blue  sky,  above  ; 
Dear  are  thy  aims  to  all  my  eager  heart, 
And  dear  thy  people,  of  myself  a  part. 
Dear  is  thy  soil  ?     It  holds  my  sacred  dead, 
And  precious  living!     Thus,  I  lift  my  head, 
And  eyes,  and  heart,  across  a  continent, 
Baring  to  thee  this  holy  sentiment. 
This  little  volume,  and  its  fate,  I  lay 
Upon  thy  big  heart's  largess.     Is  it  "  Nay, 
We  are  too  busy,  empire -building,  child, 
To  loiter,  dallying  with  thy  blossoms  wild, 
And  pretty  little  heart-songs.     Go  thy  way  ; 
We'll  hearken  to  thee  on  some  idler  day  "  ? 
But,  friends,  some  idler  day  we  may  be  dead, 
And  all  these  words,  so  comforting,  unsaid! 
See,  I  am  speaking  to  the  personal  heart, 
And  it  is  well  :  no  great  things  ever  start 
From  cold  concretions.     Give  me  one  heart's  smile, 
And  I  will  win  the  whole  world,  after-while. 
HEW  YORK,  November  i,  1890. 


759481 


INTRODUCTION. 


THERE  do  not  appear  to  be  many  drops  of  tired,  venous 
blood  creeping  through  this  admirable  collection  of  poems. 
On  the  contrary,  a  bright,  arterial  tide,  flashing  with  true 
genius  and  pulsating  with  exalted  poetic  fervor,  flows 
throughout  almost  every  stanza.  This  speaks  well  for  the 
*f  Lone-Star  State,"  whose  daughter  and  ardent  worshipper 
Mrs.  Shortridge  is.  The  refinement,  strength,  originality,  and 
versatility  of  this  authoress  will  be  recognized  at  once  by 
those  who  are  given  to  the  harmony  of  numbers  when  wedded 
to  great  beauty  and  profound  thought.  In  a  literary  and 
artistic  sense  this  volume  is  of  unusual  excellence,  and 
should  command  wide-spread  patronage. 

JAMES  MC.CARROLL. 

NEW  YORK,  November,  1890. 


LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


MY  SISTER, 

KATE  HUNT  CRADDOCK. 

I  HAVE  the  sweetest  haven 

Of  any  coast  on  earth  ; 
Where  not  a  breaker  heaveth, 

Nor  any  wind  hath  birth. 
The  secret  ?     Listen — do  not  start !- 
My  sister's  heart ! 

I  have  the  bluest  heaven 
That  ever  leaned  o'er  sea  ; 

The  calmest,  clearest  sky-world, 
To  bend  and  smile  on  me. 

Soft !  it  is,  too,  a  great  surprise — 

My  sister's  eyes  ! 

I  have  a  lamp  Aladdin, 

Most  commonplace  and  small : 
You'd  see  it  every  day,  most, 

And  wonder  not  at  all. 
Yet,  it  invokes  the  genii  band — 
My  sister's  hand  ! 


ro  LONE-ST4R  LIGHTS. 

I  have  the  prettiest  picture, 

That  smiles,  and  frowns,  and  nods. 

The  canvas  is — my  memory  ! 
The  painter's  hand  was — God's  ! 

It  follows  me  from  place  to  place — 

My  sister's  face  ! 

There  is  "  another  of  me 

With  all  the  bad  rubbed  out." 

The  spirit  seems  my  spirit, 
Yet,  it  is  gird  about 

With  light,  and  beauty  wonderful! — 

My  sister-soul  ! 


PEACH-BLOSSOM  TIME.  n 


PEACH-BLOSSOM  TIME. 

DOWN  in  the  orchards  the  wild  birds  are  singing, 

"  Peach-blossom  time  !" 
White-petalled,  gold-hearted  daisies  are  nodding, 

"  Peach-blossom  time  !" 
South  winds  are  blowing,  and  bear  on  their  pinions 

Fragrance  sublime, 
Stolen  from  groves  of  magnolia  and  orange, 

In  sunnier  clime. 

Hearts  are  rejoicing  and  nature  o'er-flowing, 

Tis  peach-blossom  time  ! 
Blue-birds  are  mating,  and  billing,  and  cooing, 

"  Peach-blossom  time  !" 
Peach-blossom  time,  with  its  wondrous  elixir 

Bounding  along, 
From  tip-toe  to  temple;  and  oh  !  how  the  heart-strings 

Vibrate  with  the  song  ! 

Open,  O  shell-tinted,  delicate  petals, 

Soft  as  the  light, 
Yield  up  th'  aroma  wrapt  up  in  your  bosoms 

Of  rose-tint  and  white  ! 
Music  and  melody  ring  in  the  wood-lands 

'  Morn,  noon,  and  night, 

Bursting  from  sweet,  feathered  throats,  in  a  rapture 
-  Of  wildest  delight ! 


i  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Strange  doth  it  seem  that  these  orchards  of  blossom 

A  few  weeks  ago 
Stood  facing  the  norther,  their  bare  arms  extended, 

Laden  with  snow; 
But  warm  rains  and  sunshine,  and  God's  wondrous  power 

And  loving  design, 
Hath  clothed  them  in  garments  surpassing  all  texture 

Of  hands  not  divine. 

Then  open  your  dainty  hearts,  pour  out  their  fragrance, 

Ablution  divine  ! 
While  angel-voice  sings,  in  the  breeze  to  the  earth-land, 

"  Peach-blossom  time  !" 


AD  ASTRA.  13 


AD  ASTRA. 

O  SKYLARK,  piercing  heaven's  unclouded  blue! 

My  soul  yearns  after  and  would  follow  thee; 
Spurning  this  nether  world  of  dross  and  clay, 

Afloat  on  that  unfathomable  sea 
Where  earth-born  cares  vex  not,  and  time  and  space 

Are  naught;  where  freedom  lives,  and  destiny 
Plies  not  so  slow  a  shuttle  through  the  web 

Of  man's  sure  growth  toward  immortality. 
Curb  not  th'  ambitious  soul's  profound  desire; 

Set  not  a  bound  to  man's  attainment  here: 
Just  what  the  mind  can  grasp,  the  heart  can  dare, 

So  much  is  possible,  is  just,  is  clear. 
To  what  extent  man  is  an  idealist, 

Is  he  divine,  omnipotent.     Yet,  fair 
As  morn  in  May-time,  must  he  ever  keep 

That  Ideal  glowing  in  his  life's  mid-air. 
Come  weal,  come  woe,  come  triumph  or  defeat, 

Still  must  it  throb  and  quicken,  low,  yet  strong, 
That  aim  and  purpose — like  the  deep  bassoon 

In  orchestration,  bearing  up  the  song, 
In  harmony  sonorous — lost  to  those 

u  Who  hear  the  music,  and  yet  miss  the  tune," 
But  to  his  ears  clear  as  the  liquid  notes 

A  mocking-bird  trills,  on  a  night  in  June. 
For  Solomon  arose  the  ivory  throne 

O'erlaid  with  gold,  when  Solomon  decreed. 
Man,  arrogant,  is  master  of  his  fate. 

Wherein  a  brave  heart  wills,  it  doth  succeed. 


i4  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Go,  then,  my  soul,  down  into  Afric  sands, 

And  fetch  the  ivory  for  this  beauteous  throne; 
Hunt  down  the  huge  beast  in  his  jungle  lair, 

And  wrench  the  white  tusk  from  his  great  jaw-bone. 
Pause  not,  but  dare — intrepid  and  alone, 

Unmindful  of  the  Upas,  and  the  coils 
Of  venomed  serpents  where  thy  foot  descends, — 

It  is  the  master-foot,  and  these  its  spoils  ! 
Go,  then,  my  heart,  launched  on  the  silent  sea, 

To  Gopher,  where  the  red  gold  lieth  deep 
Within  the  mountain-caverns;  delve  thou  there, 

Unearth  the  treasures  from  their  torpid  sleep 
Of  centuries,  and  bear  them  here,  to  melt 

In  lace-like  tracery  o'er  the  chaste  background 
Where  we  shall  stand!     And,  soul,  go  further  down — 

To  Lebanon,  where  kings  of  beasts  are  found; 
Yoke  two — the  fiercest;  lead  them  here  to  me, 

That  I  may  lay  my  fragile,  human  hand 
On  their  imperial  heads,  and  overcome 

Brute-force  by  mind's  effulgence;  and  command 
That  docile  reverence  which  our  childhood  saw 

In  Una's  lion,  with  his  lamb-like  tread, 
Guided  by  love.     Perchance  in  this  wide  world 

All  remnant  of  the  art  triumphant  is  not  dead  ! 

What  shall  we  do,  O  soul!  when  you  and  I 

Stand,  flushed,  triumphant,  on  some  dizzy  height, 
Drunk  on  ambition's  wine,  and  satiate 

With  life's  full  recompense,  and  keen  delight? 
Like  Alexander,  bow  our  crowned  heads 

Upon  our  hands  victorious,  and  weep 
Because  no  other  valorous  worlds  remain 

To  crumble  at  our  swords'  imperious  sweep  ? 
Ah  no!     There  will  be  better  things  to  do, 


AD  ASTRA.  15 

For  you  and  me.     To  carve  the  ivory  throne 
Into  styli;  to  write  the  glowing  truth, 

Clean-cut  and  luminous,  in  every  zone 
Where  hearts  are  leal,  minds  penetrating;  where 

The  virgin  lamps  of  genius  yet  endure, 
Despite  the  fogs  of  superstitious  creeds, 

That  would  their  cleansing,  steadfast  flames  obscure. 
The  gold  to  coin  in  dollars,  to  buy  bread 

For  little,  helpless  children,  hungering; 
The  beasts,  unfettered,  to  send  safely  forth, 

Man's  friend,  Love's  convert.     Thus  we  loudly  sing, 
"  Ad  Astra! — onward  to  the  burning  stars, 

O  soul  aspiring!  lag  not  by  the  way 
Despondent.     See  the  light  on  land  and  sea, 

That  leadeth  to  the  brink  of  perfect  day  !" 


16  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


LOVE'S  DEFIANCE. 

WHAT!  here  again  with  thy  mocking  eyes, 

Thou  beautiful  wraith  of  a  buried  past! 
Thou  half-guessed  scent  of  a  pressed  white  rose. 

Of  a  summer  too  fleet  and  fair  to  last! 
Ah  me!  since  then  I  have  learned  so  much 

Of  the  ways  of  the  world  and  the  ways  of  men, 
I  had  dreamed  I  was  stoical,  worldly-wise; 

I  did  not  think  I  would  stumble  again. 
I  had  told  my  heart  that  it  all  was  best; 

My  heart  had  looked  in  my  eyes  and  smiled 
A  smile  incredulous,  sensuous,  rare, 

Till  it,  somehow  or  other,  my  faith  beguiled. 
I  had  stood  by  the  bier  of  that  sweet  old  love 

And  watched  it  die  as  a  mortal  may; 
I  had  closed  its  eyes  with  a  reverent  touch, 

And  folded  the  still  white  hands  away; 
And  I  smiled  with  the  death  dew  lingering  yet 

On  my  finger-tips:  I  was  sore  beset 
With  the  horror  that  some  one  would  see  and  know 

That  my  idol  was  clay!     I  cannot  forget, 
Though  I  have  forgiven.     Ah!  living  or  dead, 

Or  buried,  or  thrilling  with  life's  red  wine, 
Thou  art  my  love  and  my  own  heart's  blood. 

Thou  art  mine  own,  and  I  am  thine! 
See!  'tis  a  miracle,  solve  it  who  can, — 

A  woman's  heart  is  a  wonderful  thing. 
The  world  is  its  kingdom,  it  reigneth  supreme, 

And  Love  is  its  vanquished  rose-yoked  king. 

October,  1889. 


AFTERWHILE.  17 

Come  to  thy  throne  in  my  heart's  deep  core; 

Kiss  me  straight  on  the  lips  anew; 
Down  on  your  knees'  and  homage  pay 

To  the  woman  who  conquers  a  man  like  you. 


AFTERWHILE, 

HEART  of  mine,  be  not  so  heavy; 

Sad  eyes,  try  to  smile; 
Surely  better  days  are  coming 
Afterwhile! 

Long  the  leaden  clouds  have  rested 

On  the  mountain's  crest, 
But  God's  sunshine  is  behind  them 
In  the  west. 

For  awhile,  dear  love,  our  pathways 

Blossomed  side  by  side, 
Till  the  frown  of  Fate  between  them 
Parted  wide. 

But  across  the  dreary  chasm 

I  can  catch  thy  smile — 
Stretching  out  my  hand,  I'll  clasp  thine, 

Afterwhile. 
1882. 


1 8  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


IN  MY  HAMMOCK. 

JULY  15,  1889. 

O  NIGHT,  so  soft  and  dim  !  when  tired  eyes 
May  rest,  all  uncomplaining,  where  they  list. 

0  night,  so  blue  and  dewy  !  dove-winged  skies, 
Just  touched  with  glory,  where  the  red  sun  kissed. 

1  lay  my  weary  head  upon  thy  heart, 

I  hear  it  throb,  and  I  am  comforted  ! 
I  seem  from  earth  and  care  something  apart, 

So  cool  and  tranquil  grows  the  busy  head. 
All  day  the  unloved  world  hath  held  me  fast, 

A  fettered  prisoner,  in  its  tedious  ways; 
All  day  the  unloved  people  came  and  passed, 
•And  spoke,  and  stared,  as  in  all  other  days. 
May  not  a  creature  have  a  creature's  mood  ? 

May  not  a  soul  grow  tired  of  playing  gay? 
May  not  a  woman  look  in  her  own  heart 

And  say,  "  Just  you  and  I  commune  to-day  ?" 
Sweet  night !  thou  art  so  restful,  wise,  and  kind, 

Dropping  thy  shielding  curtains  all  about; 
Blending  the  shadows,  softened,  undefined, 

Putting  high  lights — and  curious  eyes — to  rout. 
Reach  down  thy  velvet  arms,  and  press  me  close, 

Beam  soft  thy  starry  eyes  into  mine  own; 
Blow  sweet  thy  cooling  winds  on  bud  and  rose, 

Welcome  where  late  the  day's  hot  breath  hath  blown. 
Sweep  low  the  silken  wing  of  bat,  or  bird, 


IN  MY  HAMMOCK.  19 

— I  do  not  fear  thy  shy,  innoxious  guests — 
Across  my  fretful  brow.     Some  fancy  stirred 

By  their  light  wings,  may  prove  of  heaven  blessed. 

0  wondrous  majesty  of  space  and  light ! 

Up  where  the  burning  fire-worlds  plunge  along, 
In  orbits  wide,  God-measured,  softly  bright, 
Singing  their  mighty,  endless,  spheral  song, 

1  long  for  wings,  that  I  may  soar  away, 

And  stand — a  happy  mariner,  alone — 
Upon  that  sea  so  luminous,  and  pay 

Homage  beneath  the  rings  of  Saturn's  throne. 
I  long  for  something  high,  and  clear,  and  bright; 

I  am  so  tired  of  vainly  grovelling  here! 
I  long  for  rest!     O  friendly,  soothing  night, 

Thy  blessing!     Ah! — the  benedictial  tear, 
A  dew-drop  on  my  cheek!     Sing  low,  oh!  breeze! 

Fan  soft  as  angel  wings.     I  am  so  calm! 
Stir  not  a  green  leaf  in  the  silent  trees, 

And  steep  my  soul  in  Lethe's  holy  balm. 
Good-night,  O  big,  loud,  noisy,  garish  world! 

They  may  not  miss  me  in  the  quiet  home; 
Off  on  the  shoreless  sea  my  fancies  whirled, 

I  sink,  and  wish  the  day  may  never  come! 


20  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


"BEXIE" 

BEXIE  is  not  beautiful, — 

That  is,  as  women  go, 
With  tints,  and  airs,  and  graces, 

Made  up  for  pomp  and  show. 
But  she  is  more  than  beautiful 

Of  soul,  and  heart,  and  gaze; 
And  most  bewilderingly  fair 

Are  Bexie's  dainty  ways. 

A  creature  most  complex  is  she 

Of  aim,  capacity; 
Who  plays  divinest  music — 

Then  runs  and  makes  the  tea. 
She  teaches  stupid  children 

(And  bears  the  other  kind), 
And  is  so  equipoised  you  can 

Not  guess  what's  in  her  mind. 

I'm  mad  in  love  with  Bexie, 

And  wouldn't  do  a  thing 
To  reap  her  scorn — no  more,  indeed, 

Than  if  she  were  a  queen, 
And  I  her  heel-pressed  minion, 

Kicked  and  caressed  by  starts. 
She  is  a  queen  is  Bexie — 

A  trump,  and  Queen  of  Hearts. 
FORNKY.  TEXAS. 


JEFFERSON  DAVIS,  DEAD,  21 


JEFFERSON  DAVIS,   DEAD. 

So  stops  a  nation's  throbbing,  human  heart  ; 

So  fades  a  sweet  dream  into  viewless  air  ; 
So  dies  a  dear  hope  like  a  glowing  spark 

That  shed  a  white  light  on  a  land  so  fair. 
O  widowed  South  !  bend  low  thy  regal  head; 

Draw  close  thy  weeds  funereal,  black  as  night 
On  shore  Plutonian;  life  itself  is  dead, 

And  day  hath  faded  into  endless  night. 
Toll,  toll,  ye  bells,  in  every  dome  and  spire, 

Pour  mournful  music  on  the  Christmas-tide; 
The  Christ  born  to  us  can  no  solace  bring, — 

Before  His  birth  He  lieth  crucified'. 
Thou  fallen  hero,  with  a  man's  warm  heart, 

That  lived  and  suffered,  and  was  strong  to  dare; 
Thou  king  unconquered,  whom  not  death  could  fright,- 

Who  had  the  nerve  to  suffer  and  forbear. 

"  No  citizen  of  these  United  States  ?" 

No  cringing  coward  and  betrayer  thou, 
To  blacken  thy  white  soul  subserviently, 

Taking  the  empty,  base  allegiance  vow. 

No  flags  half-mast  on  fair  Columbia's  domes? 

No  tribute  national  to  honor  thee? 
If  all  the  North  should  rend  her  silken  clothes, 

And  kiss  the  ground  on  penitential  knee; 
If  all  the  crepe  within  her  mighty  stores 


22  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Were  draped  from  to  town,  till  earth  and  sky 
Were  one  black  cloud  of  mourning  and  despair, 

And  all  her  wardens  on  the  house-tops  cry 
"  Woe  !  woe  !" — she  could  not  add,  nor  take 

One  jot  or  tittle  from  thy  majesty  ! 
Her  flags,  though  flouted  in  high  Heaven's  face, 

Could  not  insult  us  nor  dishonor  thee. 

Sleep  on,  thou  unpolluted,  holy  clay  ! 

Sleep  well,  thou  friend  and  father  !  free  at  last 
To  lay  aside  thy  heritage  of  woe, 

Thy  galling  mem'ries  of  a  tragic  past ! 
Soft  rest  thy  honored  head  on  Mother  Earth, — 

On  Southern  earth,  and  crowned  with  Southern  flowers' 
We  take  thy  sacred  body  to  our  hearts, 

And  warm  and  guard  it  through  these  tearful  hours, 
Until  its  final  rendering  to  the  tomb. 

Thou  art  not  dead,  nor  conquered;  rest  thee  sweet, 
And  live  eternal  in  our  sun-lit  land, 

When  flags  are  rotten  at  Columbia's  feet ! 
Let  every  foot  of  this  fair,  fertile  soil — 

For  whose  redemption  he  hath  lived  and  died — 
Rest  free  from  plough  and  harrow,  while  he  lies 

In  state  majestic;  no  small  thing  denied 
In  church,  nor  state,  nor  commerce  to  attest 

The  personal  woe  on  every  loyal  head, 
While  incarnated  Hope,  with  folded  wings, 

Broods  o'er  the  casket  of  the  sacred  dead. 


A  RIDE.  23 


A  RIDE. 

THE  calendar  said  winter,  but  the  air  said  spring, 

And  May  laughed  in  February's  face; 
The  wild-plum  budded,  and  the  fences  were  wreathed 

With  dewberry  blossoms,  like  lace. 
The  sky  leaned  down  like  a  blue  China  bowl 

Not  a  fleck  in  its  pure  transparency. 
Save  a  great  gold  rim  in  the  sun-kissed  west, 

Giving  tone  to  the  dead  serenity. 
A  south  wind  gathered  all  the  fragrance  far  and  near 

And  breathed  it  on  the  cheek  like  a  kiss, 
A  great  bird  soared  in  the  sky  cerulean, 

A  monarch  in  those  realms  of  bliss. 
The  prairie  was  asmile  with  the  open  starry  eyes 

Of  spring  beauties,  buttercups  and  blue, 
Tiny,  dainty,  fragrant  blossoms,  too  small  to  name, 

But  sweet  enough  to  thrill  you  through  and  through. 
A  field-lark  whistled  'mong  the  dead  cotton  stalks, 

Or  cleaved  the  air  with  glowing  yellow  breast 
Like  a  stolen  dash  of  gold  from  the  great  gold  rim 

Over  there,  in  the  golden  west. 
All  the  world  was  at  peace,  and  the  subtle  charm  crept 

On  tip-toe,  as  it  were,  into  my  heart; 
All  bitterness  and  longing,  all  repining  and  regret, 

Seemed  from  life  and  my  soul  so  far  apart. 
And  I  caught  God's  hand,  as  it  were,  and  held  it  warm 

And  looked  up  to  the  way  of  life,  so  sweet, 
With  the  fallen,  faded,  sordid  things  of  this  vain  world 

All  melted  in  the  dust  beneath  my  feet. 


24  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Then  I  gazed  in  the  eyes  of  a  friend  whom  I  love, 

And  saw  the  same  mute  gladness  shining  there; 
Though  we  said  not  a  word,  each  heart  knew  the  truth, 

And  that  silence  was  more  eloquent  than  prayer. 
So  the  sun  dropped  down  on  his  couch  of  red  and  gold, 

And  twilight  came  in  sandals  o'er  the  hill, 
With  her  long  dun  veil  trailing  on  the  dewy  grass, 

And  her  finger  on  her  lips,  which  said  "  Be  still," 
Till  our  awed  hearts  trembled;  when,  lo  !  upon  the  night 

A  mocking-bird  poured  forth  a  rhapsody 
That  caught  up  the  silence  and  shattered  it  in  bits 

Of  thrilling,  nervous,  wildest  melody. 
So  the  world  moves  on  in  the  old,  prosaic  way, 

Only  now  and  then  the  heavy  shadows  lift, 
That  the  sensitive  may  know  just  a  foretaste  of  bliss 

In  the  heart's  world  beyond  the  silver  rift. 

TERRELL,  TEX.,  Feb.  8,  1890. 


DECATUR,  WISE  COUNTY,  TEXAS.  25 


DECATUR,  WISE  COUNTY,  TEXAS. 

JULY  23,  1889. 

ONCE  more  to  the  big-hearted  land  of  my  birth, 

Once  more  to  the  valleys  and  hills, 
Once  more  to  the  mist  on  the  blue  mountain's  peak, 

And  the  sound  of  the  fresh  flowing  rills  ! 
Once  more  to  the  breezes,  as  soft  as  the  lips 

Of  those  that  we  love  !     Once  again 
To  the  kingdom  of  Nature,  the  Temple  of  God, 

Where  freedom  and  fearlessness  reign  ! 

0  blue  peaks  majestic,  so  near,  yet  so  far, 
Up  close  to  the  warmth  of  God's  smile, 

In  the  path  of  the  stars,  and  the  calm,  heavenly  ways, 
That  the  storm-tossed  wanderer  beguile  ! 

Oh,  peaceful  and  restful  thy  solemn  ditr  heights, 
With  the  sky  bending  over  serene  ! 

Oh  cooling  and  dewy  thy  shadowy  sides, 
With  the  deep,  flowing  rivers  between  ! 

1  long  for  a  season  of  rest  on  thy  heart; 
I  yearn  for  a  surcease  of  pain, 

Begot  of  the  pitiful  struggle  of  life, 

And  the  gall  of  ambition's  rude  chain. 
I  want  to  climb  up  till  my  head  is  awhirl, 

And  my  limbs  are  atremble  and  weak 
With  the  effort  of  climbing,  and  then  to  lie  down, 

And  wait  for  an  angel  to  seek 
And  to  find  and  comfort  me,  saying,  "  Sleep  on, 


26  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Wayward  child  of  ambition.     Be  still, 
Drink  the  dews  of  forgetfulness,  lotus,  and  ease; 

And  rest  on  this  far-away  hill." 
I  am  tired  of  philosophies,  science,  and  art  ; 

I  am  sick  to  the  soul  of  desire ; 
I  want  to  be  idle  in  body  and  mind, 

Never  more  to  regret  or  aspire. 
I  am  tired  of  books  and  of  people — so  tired  ! — 

And  of  church-bells,  and  bonnets,  and  "  calls  ;" 
I  want  to  do  nothing  more  conventional 

Than  a  leaf  when  it  withers  and  falls. 
I  want  to  lie  down  in  the  lush,  tender  grass, 

With  my  head  on  my  arms,  and  my  eyes 
Uplifted  to  nothingness,  tranquil  and  vague, 

In  the  soft  China  blue  of  these  skies. 
I  want  to  count  pebbles,  hunt  birds'  nests  and  flowers, 

And  wade  in  some  rocky-bed  stream; 
I  want  to  do  nothing  for  hours  upon  hours, 

But  vegetate,  slumber,  and  dream. 
Oh,  life  is  a  sorrowful  thing  at  its  best 

To  those  who  are  keen  to  its  pain, 
Whose  nerves  are  attuned  to  a  sensitive  key, 

To  suffer  and  suffer  again; 
Never  deaf  to  the  sound  of  an  every-day  sigh, 

Never  dull  to  the  sight  of  a  tear; 
Awake  to  the  deep  undercurrent  of  woe 

That  sobs  in  the  century's  ear, 
As  the  pilgrims  of  life  tread  the  old  beaten  track, 

And  are  patient  to  stumble  and  fall 
By  the  wayside; — or,  what  is  more  pitiful  still, 

Never  know  that  they  stumble  at  all. 

But  would  we  go  back — we  who  suffer,  but  know — 
To  the  old  bliss  of  ignorance  ?  aye, 


DECATUR,  WISE  COUNTY,  TEXAS.  27 

To  the  dull,  gross,  bucolic,  unthrilling,  unmoved 

Unfeeling  existence?     Not  I; 
Not  you,  fellow-thinker.     "  Better  a  worm, 

And  feed  on  the  mulberry  leaves 
Of  Daphne,  than  be  a  king's  guest."     So  we  part; 

So  we  gather  up,  sighing,  life's  sheaves, 
With  the  wheat  and  the  tares  intermingled  therein, 

And,  holding  them  fast,  trudge  along, 
As  purposeless,  helpless,  as  fanciful,  vague, 

As  the  gist  of  this  fanciful  song. 


28  LONE-STAR.  LIGHTS. 


WHEN  THOU  ART  GONE. 

ALL  gladness  from  my  loving  heart  is  fled, 
All  lightness  from  my  tired,  lagging  feet  ; 

The  world  is  desolate,  bright  Summer  dead, 

With  rustling,  brown  leaves  for  her  winding-sheet  ! 
And  mournful  north  winds  'gainst  the  casements  beat, 
When  thou  art  gone. 

The  autumn  sun  shines  on  my  pallid  cheek, 
But  brings  no  flush  of  summer  roses  there  : 

They  blossomed,  once,  beneath  thy  ardent  gaze, 
Thy  loving  gaze,  that  told  me  I  was  fair. 
All  things  are  stale  and  desolate,  my  dear, 
When  thou  art  gone. 

Come  home  to  bless  me  with  thy  loving  eyes 
So  beautiful  !     One  tender  glance  from  thee 

Is  worth  the  heart's  blood  of  all  other  men. 
The  lightest  touch  of  thy  dear  hand  to  me 
Is  bliss  divine.     My  soul  goes  after  thee, 
When  thou  art  gone. 

Come  home  :  the  world  is  wide,  and  fair  to  see  ; 

But  life  is  short, — too  short  to  be  apart. 
Come  home,  beloved  one  :  I  cannot  bear 

To  see  thy  empty  place  ;  it  breaks  my  heart  ! 

Come  home  :   unbidden  tears  so  easy  start 
When  thou  art  gone  ! 


HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON'S  GRAYE.  29 


HELEN  HUNT  JACKSON'S  GRAVE. 

SNOW-BOUND,  snow-crowned,  on  Cheyenne's  lonely  height 

She  lies  and  is  "at  rest;"  the  world's  rude  din 
Breaks  not  that  frozen  silence  ;  day  and  night 

The  tired  worker  sleeps,  rocked  soft  within 
The  "peaceful  cradle"  of  her  own  loved  vale, 

Lulled  by  the  plash  of  waters  all  the  while, 
And  purple  mountain  mists  and  slumbrous  dale, 

Biding  the  resurrection  of  spring's  smile, 
To  wake,  and  throb,  and,  bursting  winter's  chain. 

Leap  forth  to  blossom  ;  when  the  wild  pink  rose 
Puts  out  its  fragrant  arms  to  hug  the  grave, 

And  all  its  sweet  breath  to  the  windward  throws. 
Just  she  and  God  possess  those  sacred  heights. 

No  noisy  tourist,  now,  with  book  or  knife, 
Intrudes  familiarly  upon  the  dead, 

Who  shrank  so  from  intrusion  in  her  life. 
Just  she  and  Nature,  whom  she  loved  so  well, 

At  whose  chaste  shrine  she  breathed  cathedral  rite 
On  quiet  Sabbaths,  when  gregarious  throngs 

Crowded  the  city  churches.     Pure  and  bright 
(Like  to  her  own  fine  nature,  glowing,  warm) 

She  ever  found  that  altar,  while  within 
Her  soul  responsive  liquid  songs  were  born, 

To  bless  that  world  of  fretfulness  and  sin. 
No  marble  shaft  lifts  up  its  shop-made  dome 

To  cry  in  Heaven's  face  this  woman's  name, 
Who  humbly  called  herself  a  "  fallow  field," 

Who  worked  for  God  and  right,  not  gold  and  fame. 


30  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

But  ruder,  grander,  more  imperishable  far, 

That  growing  mound  piled  up  by  reverent  hands, 
That  deathless  monument  of  rock  and  spar 

That  rises  like  a  giant  in  those  lands 
Of  rock-ribbed  giants  ;  each  stone  eloquent 

Cries,  "  Lo,  we  mark  a  benedictial  spot ; 
Tread  lightly,  for  the  ground  is  holy  here," 

Where  lies  a  woman  who  herself  forgot, 
Her  woes  of  widowhood,  and  anguish  keen 

Of  waxen  baby  fingers,  all  her  own 
Taken  at  one  fell  blow  to  crush  the  rose 

Of  her  sweet  heart,  before  it  was  full-blown  ; 
A  woman  who,  to  help  a  fallen  race, 

Gave  "of  herself,"  in  Christlike  modesty, 
Toiling  the  barbarous,  stolid  tribes  among, 

Pointing  the  way  to  higher  destiny. 
Dead  to  all  thought  but  of  God's  image  there 

Degraded,  which  with  her  two  fragile  hands 
She  lifted  up,  and  burnished  till  it  glowed 

As  fair  and  free  as  grace  these  Christian  lands. 
A  nature  rare  and  radiant,  nerves  attuned 

To  all  those  subtile  thrills  of  atmosphere, 
To  lights  and  shadows  on  the  mountain  sides, 

To  hum  of  bird  and  insect,  far  and  near  ; 
Who  laid  a  warm  hand  on  the  great  world's  pulse, 

And  felt  it  throb  and  quiver,  listening  low 
To  voice  of  God  and  angels  all  the  while, 

Feeling  the  blue-eyed  mountain  floweret  blow  ; 
Who  roamed  the  canyons,  safe  from  storm  and  beast, 

Nor  frightened  from  her  nest  the  timid  dove  ; 
Whose  songs  were  songs  of  helpfulness  and  peace, 

Whose  ways  were  ways  of  gentleness  and  love. 

COLORADO  SPRINGS,  COL.,  1889. 


WILD-PLUM  BLOSSOMS.  31 


WILD-PLUM  BLOSSOMS. 

THERE'S  a  blue-bird  concert  on  the  old  spring  branch, 
When  the  wild-plum  blossoms  are  ablow  : 

Such  a  billing  and  a  cooing, 

Such  a  fussing  and  a  wooing, 
And  a  building  nests  among  the  branches  low  ! 

There's  a  great,  big  squirming  in  the  insect  world, 
When  the  wild-plum  blossoms  are  ablow  : 

Such  a  creeping  from  the  bogs, 

Such  a  chirping  on  dead  logs, 
And  a  blinking  in  the  sun's  warm  glow  ! 

There's  a  full-dress  party  on  the  prairies  wide, 
When  the  wild-plum  blossoms  are  ablow  : 

"  Misses  Daisy,"  all  in  gold, 

And  most  wondrous  to  behold  ; 
And  "  Spring  Beauties,"  striped  with  crimson,  in  a  row! 

There's  a  strange,  new  throbbing,  in  this  heart  of  mine 
When  the  wild-plum  blossoms  are  ablow  : 
"  Carpe  diem  !"  is  the  cry, 
"  While  the  golden  moments  fly, 

Ope  the  door  to  all  the  gladness  that  you  know." 

There's  a  sly  dare-devil  in  this  heart  of  mine, 
Then  the  wild-plum  blossoms  are  ablow  : 

"  It  is  spring  !  spring  !  spring  !" 

Hear  the  glad  voices  sing, 
"  Live  and  love  and  smile, — be  happy  here  below  !" 


32  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


TO  JAMES  McCARROLL 

THOU  gentle,  helpful  friend, 
Whom  God  hath  left  to  keep  watch  on  this  shore, 

Nor  let  thy  sweet  life  end 
Till  thou  hast  helped  a  timid  wanderer  o'er! 

O  wise,  divining  heart, 
That  comprehendeth  great  things,  yet  doth  smile 

To  see  the  pale  blush  start 
That  promiseth  the  full  rose,  after-while! 

Thou  friend  of  Poet,  Sage; 
Thou  sweet  familiar  in  the  realms  of  Art; 

Thou  King  of  Song  thyself, 
With  youth  perpetual  in  thy  regal  heart! — 

What  can  Death  do  to  thee, 
But  waft  thy  brightness  to  a  brighter  land, 

To  shine  eternally  ? 

I  kneel,  and  kiss  thy  toiling,  aged  hand. 
NEW  YORK,  Oct.  25,  1890. 


SANCTUM  SANCTORUM.  33 


SANCTUM  SANCTORUM. 

I  THANK  Thee,  God,  for  this  sweet  inner  shrine, 

That's  all  mine  own.     No  sound  can  reach  so  deep, 
No  ear  can  hear  the  pulsing  of  the  tides 

Upon  the  heart-shore,  when  the  breakers  sweep. 
Here  I  am  free,  and  Love  is  freer  still, 

To  stretch  warm  arms,  and  bid,  with  kisses  sweet, 
That  other  self,  that  key-note  soft  and  clear, 

Without  which  life's  grand  psalm  were  incomplete. 

No  prying  eye  may  read  its  secret  scroll; 

No  vile-tongued  slander  slime  its  altar  o'er; 
No  glaring,  noontide  scrutiny  profane 

The  blood -veined  tracery  on  its  sacred  floor. 
Twin  angels  guard  its  portals:  fair  are  they, 

With  pinions  white,  and  flaming,  keen-edged  sword- 
"  Integrity"  and  "  Peace."     Not  Satan's  hosts 

Can  enter  in  unbid, — nor,  e'en  Thou,  Lord! 

I  thank  Thee  for  this  inner  Temple  court, — 

This  one  place  where  the  soul  may  disarray, 
And  lie  down  in  its  godlike  nudity, 

Drinking  life's  nectar,  like  a  child  in  May, 
That  loiters  'long  the  star-eyed  daisy-path 

Till  Spring-time  languor  creeps  into  his  eyes, 
His  sensuous  brain,  his  laggard  limbs,  and  lo! 

Satiated  in  the  blissful  Now,  he  lies!  ( 


34  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Two  windows  light  this  beauteous  Temple's  court — 

Mine  eyes!     Though  fine  their  silken,  fringed  shade, 
They,  too,  are  mine — impervious  to  the  stare 

Of  curious  eyes  outside.     These  Thou  hast  made. 
I  thank  Thee,  God;  and  down  the  corridors 

No  echo  wakens  what  my  soul  may  say; 
What  Image  glows  upon  this  luminous  shrine, 

No  power  of  Art  or  Science  can  portray. 


TO  THE   PICKWICK  CLUB. 

(New  Orleans.) 

On  dit  that  the  club-life  is  bad, 

A  rose-path  to  pitfalls  of  vice, 
Propitious  to  red  chips,  dice-box,  and  cocktails — 

All  sorts  of  the  "naughty-but-nice." 

That  the  way  it  "  counts  up  "  is  a  sin 

And  a  shame  to  Fhomme  de  famille; 
Inclines  him  to  yawn  at  the  sight  of  an  urn 

At  the  head  of  an  every-day  meal. 

On  dit  that  the  club-man  is  "  fresh," 

Luxurious,  lazy,  and  spoiled; 
Given  over  to  very  late  hours,  cafe'-noir, 

And  snipe  faisandee  but  half-broiled! 

That  he  breakfasts  in  bed  ten  A.M., 

When  the  children  are  all  off  to  school; 

And  "  dines  at  the  club,"  coming  home  in  the  night, 
So  knows  not  his  own — as  a  rule. 


TO  THE  PICKWICK  CLUB.  35 

I'll  confess  this  "  types  up"  mighty  bad, 
And  of  some  clubs  may  be  all  quite  true; 

But  The  Pickwick! — dear  me,  to  think  such  things  of  thee 
Would  engulf  me  in  indigo  blue. 

Thou  majestic,  respectable  pile 

Of  brownstone  and  solid  plate-glass, 
With  wood-work  substantial,  and  carpets  dark-hued, 

Soft  muffling  the  footfalls  that  pass 

Up  and  down  the  long  corridors, — surely, 

Nothing  "lighter"  than  Blackstone  and  Pitt, 

Topics  national,  science,  and  decent  old  Port, 
And  grave,  Chesterfieldian  wit, 

Has  startled  the  echoes  in  chambers 

So  sombre  of  mien,  atmosphere 
So  artistic,  and  walls  lined  with  rare  old  book-shelves 

Of  rosewood,  time-worn  and  severe. 

And  yet  from  thy  cellars  comes  forth 

An  old  vintage,  cob-webbed  and  divine, 
Which,  opened  and  quaffed,  takes  mighty  sound  heads 

"Wool-gathering"  to  heights  Apennine; 

That  betrays  in  the  most  English  wit 

A  flavor  too  Frenchy — bizarre 
Putting  twists  on  the  tip  of  a  cotton-king's  tongue 

Which  have  not  the  least  business  there. 

But  thy  green-turtle  soup — superfine! 

And  thy  bruleau — beyond  all  compare! 
Thy  claret  (it's  smuggled,  I'll  wager,  off  "  tramps  " 

That  ply  between  our  coasts  and  fair 


36  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Sunny  France,  and  the  vineyards  of  Spain), 

Ports,  Sauternes,  Madeiras  sun-kissed, 
And  a  Champagne-frappe  whose  bewildering  wiles 

Not  old  Merlin  himself  could  resist. 

But  three  cheers  for  this  excellent 

(Their  rotund  foster-father's  own  sons, 
Who  believed  in  the  good  things  of  this  mundane  sphere, 

And  in  youth  while  the  sand  of  life  runs)! 

I  don't  blame  them  for  this  blest  retreat, 

Where  cigars  are  not  under  a  ban, 
And  "shams  "  and  lace  tidies  obstruct  not  the  feet; 

And  I'd  join  them — "  if  I  were  a  man." 


A  THRENODY. 

O  heart!  you  and  I  cannot  sit  here  and  sing, 
For  life  hath  been  crowned  with  a  sorrowful  thing; 
All  the  world  is  a-weeping,  the  death-watch  a-keeping- 
We  have  seen  Love  die, 
You  and  I. 

Like  a  sudden  blue  chill  on  a  midsummer's  day, 
When  the  yellow  corn  danced  in  the  footsteps  of  May, 
His  pulses  grew  cold,  his  caress  not  so  bold — 
And  we  saw  Love  die, 
You  and  I. 


A  THRENODY.  3? 

Oh,  we  hugged  him  tumultuously  up  to  our  heart, 
We  kissed  him,  and  cried,  "  You  and  I  cannot  part;" 
But  the  kisses  were  vain,  came  not  warm  back  again — 
And  we  watched  Love  die, 
You  and  I. 

And  what  is  there  left  in  this  work-aday  world, 
Since  Love  hath  his  white  wings  of  blessedness  furled 
For  you  and  for  me  ?     Just  a  mute  agony — 
Since  we  saw  Love  die, 
You  and  I. 

Ah,  the  silent  white  lips,  erst  so  warm  and  so  red, 

Now  bloodless  and  smileless,  yea,  frozen  and  dead! 

Oh  for  one  human  touch!     Is  it  asking  too  much — 

Since  we  let  Love  die, 

You  and  I  ? 

So  endeth  the  lesson;  amen!  and  adieu! 
'Twas  a  sweet  little  Eden  in  life,  all  for  you; 
As  for  me,  well-a-day,  I  can't  sing  the  old  way — 
Since  we  let  Love  die, 
You  and  I 


38  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


ROBIN  REDBREAST. 

I'M  a  robin-redbreast,  and  I've  built  me  a  nest 

In  the  boughs  of  an  old  apple-tree, 
Where  the  blossoms,  soow-white,  drift  around  me  at  night, 

Just  as  soft  and  sweet  as  can  be. 
I'm  a  happy  old  "  bach  "  (and  they  say,  quite  a  catch), 

And  I  really  did  think,  for  awhile, 
That  I'd  find  me  a  wife,  whom  I'd  love  as  my  life, 

And  who'd  live  in  the  light  of  my  smile. 

But  these  theories  fine,  and  these  castles  of  mine, 

Which  arose  'neath  my  enraptured  eyes, 
All  tumbled  to  dust, — as  such  vagaries  must, — 

And  tumbled  to  dust  in  this  wise: 

One  evening  I  lay,  in  my  hammock  so  gay, 

And  was  trilling  a  song  I  had  heard, 
When  a  voice  like  a  bell  on  my  listening  ear  fell, 

As  it  said,  "  Hear  that  'cute  little  bird!" 
Then  a  voice  like  a  drum,  with  its  resonant  hum 

(And  a  very  nice  voice,  by  the  way), 
Made  reply,  "  Shoot  the  bird!  let  him  warble  unheard, 

And  listen  to  what  I've  to  say  " 

Then  I  doubled  up  small  in  a  soft  little  ball, 

And  pretended  to  be  sound  asleep; 
But  I  winked  my  left  eye,  in  a  manner  quite  sly, 

And  indulged  in  a  curious  peep. 


ROBIN  REDBREAST.  39 

There  they  were,  down  below,  in  the  twilight's  soft  glow, 

A  youth  and  a  maiden  so  fair: 
He  as  proud  as  a  king,  she  a  dear  little  thing, 

With  blue  eyes,  and  long  golden  hair. 
Now,  it's  sad  to  relate,  but  the  old  garden  gate 

Had  all  fallen  in  ruins  to  the  ground; 
They  had  naught  to  lean  on,  so  the  youth's  manly  arm 

Encircled  the  maid's  waist  around. 


"  Goodness  me!  let  me  see,"  said  I,  up  in  the  tree, 

"  If  such  really  can  be  the  case." 
Then,  said  I,  up  above,  "  Those  two  souls  are  in  love: 

It's  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face!" 

For  his  eyes  were  aglow,  and  his  tones  soft  and  low, 

Her  white  fingers  he  held  in  his  own, 
And  the  look  in  her  eyes,  in  their  shy,  glad  surprise, 

Would  have  melted  the  heart  of  a  stone. 
He  said  many  a  nice  thing,  and  gave  her  a  ring, 

And  kissed  her, — indeed  it  is  so; 
And  she  hung  her  shy  head,  blushed  a  bright,  rosy  red, 

Blushed, — but  still  let  him  kiss  her,  you  know. 

(If  I  thought  Jenny  Wren  would  be  half  that  sweet  when 

I  tell  her  my  love  and  my  fears, 
Oh!  I'd  fly  to  her  bower  in  the  fresh  morning  hour, 

And  pour  out  my  soul  in  her  ears.) 

Well,  my  fond  heart  that  night  almost  burst  with  deliglit 

When  jhe  promised  to  be  his  dear  wife; 
And  he  kissed  her  again,  and  to  me  'twas  quite  plain 

That  he  loved  her  far  more  than  his  life. 


40  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Then  he  said  he  must  go;  but  his  footsteps  were  slow, 

And  the  parting  as  sad  as  could  be. 
He  passed  down  the  glade  in  the  fast-falling  shade, 

And  the  maiden  stood  under  the  tree. 

"Now,"  said  I,  "she'll  boo-hoo, — the  girls  always  do 
When  their  lovers  go  out  of  their  sight; 

She'll  call  him  her  king,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
And  sit  mooning  here  half  of  the  night." 

But  the  maid  gave  a  laugh,  and  said  "  O  the  soft  calf! 

Didn't  he  swallow  my  taffy  down,  though  ? 
Well,  I'll  wear  his  new  ring, — it's  a  rather  neat  thing, 

And  shows  I've  another  new  beau." 
Then  she  lifted  her  skirt,  O  the  mean  little  flirt! 

And  went  tripping  away  from  my  sight  ; 
While  I  sat  there  and  grieved  for  that  fellow  deceived,- 

Wept,  and  prayed  for  him,  half  of  the  night! 

So  I'm  Robin  Readbreast,  and  I  live  in  my  nest, 

Away  up  in  the  old  apple-tree; 
I've  no  use  for  the  girls,  lest  their  soft  eyes  and  curls 

Weave  a  web  and  a  snare  for  poor  me! 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 

Do  you  know  what  it  is,  on  a  stormy  night, 

To  grope  down  a  long,  dim  hall, 
With  a  timid  heart,  and  an  outstretched  hand 

That  touches  nothing  at  all? 

Do  you  know  what  it  is,  when  the  throat  is  parched 

And  a  fever  consumes  the  brain, 
To  press  to  the  lips  an  empty  cup, 

And  quaff,  and  quaff  in  vain  ? 

Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  think  you  hear 

A  loved  voice  call  you  sweet, 
And  to  run,  and  find  just  silence  there, 

And  your  shadow  at  your  feet  ? 

Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  dream  of  one 

You  love,  and  are  parted  from; 
To  feel  the  clasp  of  the  dear,  warm  hands, 

And  the  gaze  of  the  tender,  calm, 

Familiar  eyes  ?     And  to  wake  and  find 

The  moonlight  lying  still 
On  the  checkered  floor,  and  the  dews  of  night 

On  your  brow,  so  damp  and  chill  ? 

To  strain  your  eyes  for  a  vanished  form 

You  could  have  sworn  was  there, 
And  feel  the  warmth  of  a  living  cheek, 

Pressed  up  against  your  hair  ? 

Do  you  know  of  the  dearth  of  life  and  hope 

That  comes  with  this  silent  brood 
Of  helpless  sorrows?     Then  you  know 

What  it  is  to  be  misunderstood. 

FORT  WORTH,  July,  1890. 


LONE-STAR.  LIGHTS. 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 

OH!  I  am  tired  and  my  heart  is  sick, 

My  feet  are  bruised,  and  the  way  is  long. 

Have  mercy,  Lord!     I  grope  through  trials  thick; 
My  poor  voice  faints,  it  cannot  lift  a  song. 

The  way  is  long;  the  stones  are  hard  and  sharp — 
They  pierce  my  feet;  and  yet  I  must  go  on: 

For  when  I  turn  with  hungry  heart  and  eyes 
To  the  dear  past,  its  milestones  are  all  gone. 

No  brother  pilgrims  on  this  lonely  way 

Have  met,  overtaken,  or  have  passed  me  by; 

Surely  the  only  thing  of  life  and  breath 
In  all  this  way  so  desolate,,am  I  ! 

And  yet  one  day  the  sun  shone,  and  the  land 
Smiled  as  it  stretched  before  my  eager  gaze, 

And  happy  pilgrims  beckoned  from  the  heights 
To  me,  along  those  gentle  flowery  ways. 

Where  are  thy  people,  Lord,  and  where  their  goal? 

Or  where  am  I  ?     Have  guide-posts  false  allured, 
And  am  I  lost  in  wildernesses  dark, 

Whose  horrors  none  but  I  have  thus  endured  ? 

I  am  oppressed  w'th  weight  of  weary  woe; 

The  past  is  dead,  the  present  is  a  blank; 
And  on  the  future's  twilight  misty  shore 

I  see  no  signal  to  a  harbor  bank. 


DE  PROFUND1S.  43 

•\ 

I  stand  like  one  out  in  the  midst  of  space, 
With  naught  beside,  behind,  nor  yet  before, 

Who  calls,  and  stretches  out  his  empty  hands. 
Hearing  and  touching  nothing,  evermore. 

Not  e'en  the  footprint  of  a  ghost. is  there, 

No  dim  ideal  of  the  days  agone: 
Just  space,  and  silence,  and  the  great  Ego, 

Appalling  in  its  entity,  alone! 

Have  mercy,  Lord!     If  all  things  else  are  vain, 
In  pity  send  despair's  last  refuge,  death. 

What  matter  if  there  be,  or  not,  the  life 

Beyond  the  veil  of  this  short  space  of  breath. 

"  To  be,  or  not  to  be"  it  little  boots 

When  one  is  anguished  with  the  life  to-day. 

Oh,  sweet  the  thought  to  still  the  aching  heart, 
And  let  to-morrow  bring  whate'er  it  may. 

Oh,  I  am  tired,  and  my  heart  is  sick, 

My  feet  are  bruised,  and  the  way  is  long! 

Have  mercy,  Lord!     The  world  will  never  know. 
Nor  feel  the  loss  of  this  unfinished  song. 

TERRELL,  Aug.,  1687. 


44  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


TO   LILIAN   WALLACE  BREUSTEDT. 

(AGKD  OXK  MONTH  ) 

THOU  tiny,  mighty,  wondrous  thing, 
With  bells  of  heaven  still  a-ring 
In  thy  pink  ears,  and  in  thy  eyes 
The  glow  of  summer,  God-land  skies, 
Thou  baby ! 

O  tender  little  rose-leaf  hand, 
All  pink  and  white,  and  dimples  bland! 
Thou  holdest,  in  that  palm  so  small, 
A  father's  hope,  a  mother's  all, 
Thou  baby  ! 

O  rosy,  wavering,  milk  breathed  mouth, 
As  fragant  as  a  bunch  of  south 
Wind-kissed  narcissus!  in  thy  smile 
The  sun  shines.     Much  dost  thou  beguile, 
Thou  baby ! 

O  cunning  little  shell-tint  feet ! 
Beware, — ye  stand  on  heart's-ease,  sweet ! 
On  mother-heart,  on  mother-soul, 
Beware,  be  tender,  merciful, 
Thou  baby  ! 

Smile  on,  dream  on,  dear  elfin  sprite ; 
Yea,  cry,  and  vent  thy  puny  might 
On  mother  breast,  on  grandsire's  beard, 
So  only  thou  may'st  live,  be  spared, 

Sweet  baby ! 
WACO,  TEXAS. 


OPENING  OF  THE  MOON-FLOWER.  45 


OPENING  OF  THE  MOON-FLOWER. 

DEDICATED  TO  MRS.  JULIA  HALSELL,  DECATUR,  TEXAS. 

THE  sun  lay  prone  upon  his  bed 

Of  gold  and  crimson  in  the  west ; 
The  glory  of  his  parting  smile 

Lay  fair  on  vale  and  mountain  crest. 
A  molten  luminosity 

Bathed  all  the  land  in  amber  glow, 
While  up  the  mountain,  step  by  step, 

Night  trailed  her  shadowy  garments  slow. 
A  mocking-bird  poured  out  his  heart 

Upon  the  dull  ears  of  the  day, 
And  cattle  on  the  peaceful  hills 

Lowed  as  they  took  the  homeward  way. 
A  holy  hush  held  all  the  world 

Spell-bound,  as  though  the  finger  tips 
Of  "Silence"  touched  the  drowsy  lids, 

And  pressed  the  mute  but  quivering  lips 
Of  life.     A  passing  breeze  sang  low, 

As  though  afraid  to  break  the  spell ; 
And  half-guessed,  in  the  hollow  glade, 

Came  soft  the  tinkle  of  a  bell  ; 
While  deeper  slept  the  day-god  on, 

And  duller  grew  his  crimson  bed, 
And  lower  down  the  western  sky 

Sank  in  the  leaden  clouds  his  head. 
While,  rising  calmly  from  her  couch, 

The  pale  moon  left  her  eastern  bovver, 


46  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Turning  her  silver  chalice  down, 

Pouring  its  wine  on  shrub  and  flower, 
Breathing  her  thrilling,  potent  breath 

Upon  her  children  slumbering  there. 
All  day  upon  the  trellis  side 

The  moon-flowers,  wondrous,  wondrous  fair! 
They  felt  the  mother-spirit  brood, 

They  thrilled  in  breathless  ecstasy, 
They  sighed  and  moved,  and  smiling  oped 

In  matchless  grace  and  purity; 
As  though  a  hand  invisible 

Had  caught  their  waxen,  snowy  leaves, 
Drawing  apart  the  petals  light 

As  sea-foam,  softer  than  the  breeze, 
And  whiter  than  the  mountain  snow, 

Where  nothing  darker  than  God's  smile 
.  Hath  touched  it,  where  but  angels'  feet 

Have  pressed  and  blessed  it  all  the  while. 
O  flower  incomparably  fair  ! 

O  blossom  of  the  gods  divine  ! 
Are  white  souls  stirring  in  thy  depths? 

May  not  thy  whiteness  whiten  mine  ? 
Ah  !  emblem  of  the  spirit's  birth, 

When  day  and  turmoil  pass,  when  pain 
And  passion  die,  when  mortal  lips 

Breathe  in  the  breath  of  God  again, — 
So  may  another  sunset  come. 

When  life's  hot  noon  hath  passed  away 
So  may  our  white  souls  bloom  again, 

Responsive,  at  the  close  of  day, 
To  Love  mysterious,  and  divine, 

That  rules  the  great  world  night  and  day, 
That  heals  a  broken,  contrite  heart, 

And  holds  the  planets  in  their  way. 


ENCHANTED.  4? 


ENCHANTED. 

WHEN  thou  and  t  stand  face  to  face 
In  God's  clear  sunlight,  smiling, 

I  trust  thine  eyes,  believe  thy  words, 
Yield  to  thy  laugh  beguiling. 

When  thou  art  gone,  alas!  my  faith 

Goes  sadly  groping  after, 
Through  quagmires  deep  of  grave  mistrust, 

Where  rings  no  echoed  laughter. 

What  means  it,  dear  ?     Why  this  at  least, — 
If  thou  would'st  faithful  prove  me, 

Go  not  at  all,  stay  on  and  smile, 
And  I'll  smile  back,  and  love  thee. 


48  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


SYMPHONY  NUMBER  SIX  (HAYDN). 

As  PLAYED  BY  THE  ELGIN  BAND  AT  FORT  WORTH  SPRING  PALACE, 
MAY  26,  1890.* 

LIKE  thistle-down,  O  Music  !  on  thy  wings 

Supernal  mounts  the  shackled  human  heart, 
Into  that  upper  aura,  fine  and  rare, 

Where  all  things  clogging,  gross,  fall  swift  apart, 
Tossing  the  loosened  soul  to  heights  sublime 

O'er  clouds  and  planets,  far  from  land  or  seas, 
To  soar,  with  cherubim  and  seraphim, 

Atremble,  in  the  zone  of  Pleiades. 

O  Music!  born  of  voiceless  soul-desire 

To  lift  the  earthy  thoughts  from  mortal  breast, 
And  sift  them,  like  snow-mists,  on  Jura's  sides, 

Leaving  the  most  ethereal,  purest,  best. 
O  toiling,  grovelling  world  of  work-a-day, 

Creep,  creep  from  out  my  senses  and  my  eyes; 
Leave  not  one  murky  film  obscuringly 

To  tinge  the  blue  of  Fancy's  summer  skies. 

Soft  rest  these  tired  orbs  on  swaying  moss, 

That  sings  of  shady  swamps  and  cypress  bowers; 

Sweet  steals  the  balmy,  soporiferous  breath 

Of  new-made  hay,  and  fresh,  dew-laden  flowers. 


SYMPHONY  NUMBER  SIX  (HAYDN}.  49 

Dim,  dim  as  sea-foam  when  the  moon  goes  down, 
And  distant  grow  the  faces,  laughs,  and  sighs 

Around  me:  off  in  other  realms  I  float, 
And  trail  my  fingers  on  the  mystic  skies. 

I  lay  my  cheek  against  the  velvet  blue, 

So  cool,  so  deep,  so  beautifully  pure, 
While  angel  wings,  a-flutter,  waft  my  breath. 

Such  ecstasy  no  mortal  can  endure; — 
Back  to  the  rude  world's  din,  the  madding  crowd' 

Back  to  the  sodden  earth-land,  once  again! 
Was  that  the  theme's  finale?    Ah!  thank  God 

For  such  a  sweet  surcease  of  life  and  pain. 


50  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


FOREBODING. 

LAST  night  I  idly  drew  thy  face 

Against  the  lamp-lit  wall, 
Outlined  upon  a  paper  white 

A  profile, — that  was  all. 
And  yet,  to-day,  as  here  it  lies 

Upon  my  desk,  so  still, — 
That  silent,  calm,  familiar  face, — 

I  feel  a  sudden  chill. 
I  think,  "  So  would  my  darling  lie 

If  he  were  cold  and  dead: 
The  fine-cut,  sensitive,  sweet  mouth; 

The  broad,  white,  smooth  forehead; 
So  lie  the  long  dark  lashes  on 

The  pallid  cheek."     Ah!  me! 
It  is  a  gruesome  fancy,  dear, 

And  fraught  with  agony. 
I  cannot  read,  nor  write,  nor  think, 

With  thy  dead  face  so  near. 
''  I  am  a  foolish  creature  ?" — Yes, 

A  woman  is  a  queer, 
An  unsolved  problem,  and  her  nerves 

Sensitively  attuned 
To  draughts  blown  from  the  spirit-world; 

Too  easy,  far,  to  wound; 
But  easy,  too,  to  cheer  and  thrill. 

So,  chide  me  not,  for  this; — 
It  is  a  foolish  fancy.     Well, 

Dispel  it — with — a  kiss. 


ODE  TO  A  PERSIAN  CHARM.  51 


ODE  TO  A   PERSIAN   CHARM. 

THY  fragrance  brings  to  me 
No  dreams  of  spicy  Ceylon's  isle, 
No  dark-eyed  Houri's  balmy  smile, 
No  languid,  lotus-blossomed  Nile, 

No  breeze  of  Araby; 

But  glow  of  loved  eyes, 
And  touch  of  hand  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  wealth  of  Araby, 
And  kisses  warm  as  noontide  sea 

Beneath  low,  tropic  skies. 

Thou  art,  or  wert,  a  toy 
Picked  up  at  random  by  his  hands, 
Because  thou  cam'st  from  distant  lands, — 
A  message  waft  from  India's  strands 

To  a  sad,  thoughtful  boy; 

But  now  an  idol  thou. 
Because  that  thou  hast  laid  among 
The  homely  garments  for  so  long, 
Breathing  his  breath,  in  sigh  or  song, 

Therefore  to  thee  I  bow. 

Thy  odorous  face  I  kiss. 
And  dream  it  is  his  soft  brown  eyes, 
So  full  of  mute  but  glad  surprise, 
Where  love  unspoke,  yet  speaking,  lies, — 

And  this  to  me  is  bliss. 


52  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


INSOMNIA. 

O  THOSE  quiet  hours  of  night, 
When  the  fire-light  flickers  low, 

And  the  grotesque  shadows  dance 
On  the  walls — above — below, 

All  around  the  tensioned  sight; — 

O  those  quiet  hours  of  night! 

O  those  solemn  hours  of  night, 
When  old  Time  lies  dead  between 

The  morrow  and  the  yesterday, 
While  the  watching  hours  lean 

Shivering  with  damp  and  fright; — 

O  those  solemn  hours  of  night! 

O  those  awful  hours  of  night, 

When  grim  darkness  wraps  the  sea, 

And  the  puny  soul  is  awed 
By  the  world's  immensity, 

And  the  spirit  cowers,  afright; — 

O  those  awful  hours  of  night! 

O  those  lingering  hours  of  night, 
When  the  clock's  unchanged  refrain 

With  each  hard,  metallic  click 
Drives  a  nail  into  the  brain, 

And  fhe  spine  is  drawn  so  tight; — 

O  those  lingering  hours  of  night! 


INSOMNIA.  53 

O  those  pulsing  hours  of  night, 

When  the  eyelids  open  wide, 
And  the  Spirit  and  the  Flesh 

Stand  by  Self,  on  either  side, 
While  Self  pleads  to  stay  their  flight; — 
O  those  pulsing  hours  of  night! 

O  those  witching  hours  of  night, 

When  the  loosened  spirit  stands, 
Tip-toe,  on  the  mountain  top, 

Gazing  into  future  lands, 
Striving  hard  to  wing  its  flight; — 
O  those  witching  hours  of  night! 

Oh!  those  ghastly  hours  of  night, 

When  the  ghosts  of  loved  dead 
Come  on  noiseless  wings  of  air, 

Hovering  o'er  the  fevered  head, 
Quick'ning  heart  and  brain  and  sight; — 
O  those  ghastly  hours  of  night! 

O  those  purging  hours  of  night, 

When  the  poignant  conscience  wakes, 

And  the  lightest  deeds  of  day 
Take  on  darkest,  vilest  shapes, 

Till  God's  voice  cries  "Stop!"  outright; — 

O  those  purging  hours  of  night! 

****** 

O  those  blessed  hours  of  night, 

When  the  o'erwrought  body  feels 
Sweet  exhaustion  coming  on, 

And  the  brain,  chaotic,  reels, 
While  Sleep's  fingers  bind  the  sight; — 
O  those  blessed  hours  of  night! 


54  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP." 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MABEL  TERRELL. 

SWEET  child,  they  only  of  the  earth, 

Earthy,  have  called  thee  dead. 
Blessed  beyond  compare  thy  sleep, — 

Thy  peaceful,  sunny  head 
Low  cushioned  on  the  mother-heart 

Of  silent  Earth,  thy  hands 
Soft  folded  on  thy  guileless  breast, 

Till,  on  the  silver  strands 
Of  God's  own  shore  of  Blessedness, 

Thy  gentle  feet  may  rove, 
Thy  gladdened  eyes  behold  His  face, 

Thy  heart  beat  to  His  love  : 
Never  to  dream  life's  fitful  dream, 

And,  waking,  feel  the  pain 
Of  prescience,  that  'tis  sad  to  wake — 

That  thou  wouldst  sleep  again. 

Brave  little  heart,  that  so  aspired 

To  tread  life's  higher  ways  ; 
That  turned  to  books  and  usefulness, 

Away  from  childish  plays  : 
Quaint  little  woman,  with  a  head 

Away  beyond  thy  years  ; 
And  eyes  anticipative,  grave 

With  unshed  mother  tears 


"  HE  GIYETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP."  55 

Over  life's  pathos.     Ah  !  too  well 

Thy  sensitive  young  soul 
Sounded  the  world's  great  depths  of  woe, 

And  felt  the  sorrowful. 
God  lent  thee  for  a  little  while 

To  bless  our  earth.     Thy  face 
Is  here  forever,  and  thy  ways, 

Shining  with  Christ-like  grace, 
Linger  to  light  the  rugged  path 

Our  weary  feet  must  tread. 
Thou  art  not  "  gone  "  nor  "  taken  hence  • 

Sweet  child,  thou  art  not  "dead." 

TERRELL,  TEX. 


56  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS, 


A    MOOD. 

NEW  YORK,  SEPTEMBER  16,  1890. 

THE  day  is  gray,  and  my  life  is  gray. 

A  white  mist  lieth  low 
On  grimy  roof  and  attic  pane, 

And  winds  blow  to  and  fro, 
Dirge-like.     O  God  !  I  am  so  sad  ; 
Smile  through  Thy  clouds,  and  make  me  glad. 

Whence  comes  this  over-tempered  steel 
Of  brain  and  nerve,  that  makes  me  weak  ? 

A  creature  of  the  winds  and  rains, 

Which  earthward  roaming  spirits  seek 

To  lay  on  heart  and  eyes  and  lips 

Their  ghastly,  icy  finger-tips? 

Out  on  the  broad  Atlantic  wave, 

What  desolation  in  the  skies  !    ' 
No  sunset  bars,  no  silver  path 

Oped  up  to  gates  of  Paradise  ! 

0  dreary  stretch  of  leaden  sea  ! 
My  kindred  soul  goes  out  to  thee. 

1  want  no  bright  nor  gladsome  thing, 

No  crown,  nor  gold,  nor  worldly  fame  : 
In  this  bleak  heart  there  is  no  room 

For  any  guest  of  cheerful  name. 
I'd  yield  to  Fate's  relentless  frown, 
And  sink  full  fiftv  fathoms  down 


A  MOOD.  57 

In  those  gray  waters,  where  is  peace, 

And  no  awakening  with  the  morn, 
To  groan,  and  heave  the  old  load  up 

On  shoulders  that  are  tired,  and  torn, 
And  bleeding.     Christ,  is  aught  so  sweet 
As  death — that  restfulness  complete  ? 

"  To  sit  is  better  than  to  stand, 

To  lie  is  better  than  to  sit, 
To  sleep  is  better  than  to  lie  ; 

And  death  is  only  sleep," — to  wit, 
I  would  be  dead  !     I  reason  so, 
I  see  the  way — but  dare  not  go  ! 

***** 

Peace  !     Peace  !     Look  up,  O   soul  supine  ! 

What  golden  glinting  in  the  west  ! 
It  is  the  sunset,  fair  and  clear  ; 

At  close  of  day  there  cometh  rest. 
Quick  !  fling  the  lattice  and  the  door; 
Drink  in,  O  heart,  life's  balm  once  more. 


58  LONE-STAR.  LIGHTS. 


"  UNAVAILABLE?" 

l!  NOT  print  my  poems  for  the  Eastern  mart  ?" 
Because  the  world  is  busy? — will  not  hear 

The  sweet  songs  I  have  wrought  them,  brought  them,  aye, 
Across  a  continent, — they  will  not  hear  ? 
Then  I  am  desolate. 

Why,  in  my  heart  are  prairie  breezes,  fresh 

And  cool  and  soft  as  loving  mother-hand 
On  fevered  children's  brows,  and  musical 

As  harps  ^Eolian  in  Summer-land, — 
Those  prairie  winds  ! 

I  thought  the  great  tired  world  would  be  so  glad 

To  rest  awhile,  and  listen,  by  the  way, 
In  attic  rooms,  and  sun-baked,  mortared  walls  ; 

And  hot,  dry  feet  on  cobble-stones  all  day, — 
Poor,  toiling  things  ! 

But,  "  It  is  busy  ?"     Oh  !  and  I  have  flowers 

Just  as  I  plucked  them  on  the  sunny  hills 
Of  Texas, — fresh,  dew-sprinkled,  sweet  ; 

And  caught  up  sparkles  of  the  rocky  rills, — 
Such  flowers  and  rills  ! 

"  They  will  not  hear?"     Ah  me  !   'twould  do  us  good, 
The  singer  and  the  listener.     What  were  life 

When  songs  and  breeze  and  flowers  and  rills  are  dead, 
And  "  Mind  "  and  "  Money"  wage  perpetual'strife  ? 
Poor,  foolish  world  ! 


"  UNAVAILABLE?"  59 

Where  Hope  and  Faith  stand  fainting  side  by  side, 
And  Greed  and  Gain  press  boldly  to  the  fore  ; 

And  gray-haired  young  men  grasp  and  cheat  and  scheme  ; 
And  old-eyed  women,  young,  look  young  no  more? 
Poor,  hunted  things  ! 

Oil  !  to  uplift  them  in  my  strong,  kind  arms, 
And  bear  them  to  the  sweet  hills  and  the  vales, 

The  woods  and  prairies,  and  the  rippling  rills, 

And  voice  of  bird  and  cattle  in  the  dales, — 

Stern,  forceful  arms  ; 

And  eyes  steadfast,  and  voice  invincible, 

That  says  "  Lie  still  until  the  fever  pass  ; 
You  are  most  ill,  and  do  not  understand. 

Here,  press  your  temples  on  the  dewy  grass, — 
Poor,  aching  head  ! 

Quaff  deeply  these  sweet  waters,  clear  as  light, 

And  breathe  the  tonic  of  the  ripening  hay  ; 
Drink  in  the  warmth  of  sunshine  and  blue  sky, 

And  learn  to  live  and  love  this  simpler  way, — 
This  gentler  way." 

"  But  they  are  busy,  and  they  will  not  hear?" 

Ah  me  !   my  yearning  heart  is  fit  to  break  : 
"They  will  but  hear  of  Tariff,  Race,  and  "  Bills"? 

They  turn  their  heads  and  fold  their  arms,  nor  take 
One  little  flower  ?" 

"  Forgive  them,  Father,  for  they  do  not  know  !" 

Praise  God,  the  flowers  bloom  new  each  golden  spring  ; 

The  south  winds  corne  back  from  the  low,  warm  Gulf, 
And  songs  born  of  the  soul  will  wake  and  sing, 
And  I  will  hear. 


60  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Some  day,  the  world  will  not  so  busy  be  ; 

Some  day  these  iron  chains  will  rust  and  break, 
And  they  will  fall.     Then  will  I  lift  them  up, 

And  sing  again,  for  Love's  and  Pity's  sake, — 
And  they  will  hear. 

Yet  I  am  sad  to  see  the  pretty  wreck 

Of  this  year's  blossoms,  which  no  one  will  buy, 

All  wilted  in  my  arms.     Well,  never  mind, — 
God  does  not  charge  me  for  them.     He  and  I 
Are  quite  good  friends. 

Would'st  know  the  reason  ?  Listen,  very  soft 
(The  world  would  laugh  ;  but  it  is  really  true),- 

Because  I  take  His  breezes,  rills,  and  flowers, 
And  weave  them  into  daisy-chains  for  you  ! 
NEW  YORK,  Sept.,  1890. 


TEXAS  PRAIRIES.  61 


TEXAS  PRAIRIES. 


i. 

I  LOVE  the  prairies  in  the  early  spring; 

I  know  the  promise  in  the  dun  bare  sod 
That  lifteth  up  its  seared  face  to  the  sun, 

Waiting  the  resurrecting  smile  of  God. 
For  long,  drear  weeks,  a  slumberous  discontent 

Stirs  'neath  the  dead  grass, —  like  a  wakened  soul 
Striving  toward  self-redemption;  furrows  break 

Along  the  thawing  surface,  and  there  roll 
Off  toward  the  gulleys  rivulets  of  tears, 

Cold  tears — but  iris-tint  with  sheer  delight 
At  broken  barriers;  while  soft  below, 

The  eager  insect  world  creeps  to  the  light. 
Then  rolleth  gray  clouds  to  their  northern  home, 

Leaving  blue  rifts  of  heaven  in  between; 
Then  riseth  warm  mists  from  the  Mexic  Gulf, 

Floating  in  white  flecks  on  the  azure  sheen; 
Then  singeth  low  winds  from  the  southern  coast, 

With  dash  of  oleander  and  peach  bloom 
Fresh  in  the  face;  while  from  the  distant  wood 

Cometh  the  woodpecker's  insistent  "  boom!" 
Now  April  taketh  on  a  fickle  mood, 


62  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

And  dark-gray  clouds  drape  all  the  smiling  sky, 
A  sultry  langour  steals  into  the  air, 

And  all  the  zephyrs  in  profound  sleep  lie. 
Warm  rains  descend  as  silently  as  tread 

Of  dove's  feet  on  a  meadow;  day  and  night, 
That  fine,  soft  drizzle  plieth  on  the  earth, 

Nor  giveth  hint  of  silver  linings  bright. 
When  lo!  at  sunset,  long,  red  slanting  bars 

Lean  from  the  west,  and  clasp  the  belted  zone 
Of  zenith  and  horizon;  and  gold  glints 

Flash  on  the  window-panes  and  belfry-stone. 
A  mocking-bird,  in  some  sequestered  bower, 

Pours  out  a  joyous,  rapturous  roundelay; 
So  falls  the  curtain  on  old  Winter's  bier, — 

So  lifts  the  curtain  on  sweet  Spring's  birthday. 
When  morning  breaks,  lo!  all  the  sodden  earth 

Is  carpeted  with  blossoms,  blue  and  white, 
Purple  and  yellow, — set  in  emerald 

Of  new-born  grasses,  tender,  dewy-bright. 
A  pale  narcissus  noddeth  on  her  stem 

So  pink  and  fragile  in  the  wind's  rude  clutch, 
And  gold-heart  buttercups  coop  up  their  leaves, 

Greedy  for  sunshine,  saying,  "  See  how  much 
Of  God-love  we  can  hold!"  then  bob  their  heads 

And  closed  their  timid  eyes,  half-chilled,  afraid 
Of  every  ripple  in  the  south-wind's  laugh, 

Of  every  white  cloud's  temporary  shade. 


So  passeth  childhood,  full  of  fits  and  starts, 

With  hope  unbounded, — like  the  prairie's  ring, — 

All  birth  and  promise,  sunshine,  dew,  and  flowers!— 
I  love  the  prairies  in  the  early  spring! 


TEXAS  PRAIRIES.  63 

II. 

I  dread  the  prairies  in  midsummer  days, 

When  fruitage  rots  with  overmellowing; 
When  wild  flowers  spread  precocious,  drouth-forced  lesves, 

Then  fall  lamenting,  stricken,  withering. 
I  dread  the  long  curled  waves  of  burning  heat 

That  quiver,  palpitating,  near  the  ground, 
Where  field-larks  cower,  panting,  open-mouthed, 

Dying  because  no  cooling  pond  is  found. 
When  thirsty  cattle  stand  in  ripened  hay 

Knee-deep,  and  low  across  the  dreariness, 
Answered  in  sympathy  unworded,  dumb, 

Pathetic  in  its  patient  helplessness. 
When  fierce  siroccos  sweep  the  red-hot  sands 

In  blinding  eddies  o'er  the  sun-baked  ponds, 
And  cacti — thriving  salamander-like — 

Thrust  forth  their  hardy,  purple-fruited  fronds. 

So  panteth  Life's  high  noon,  intensified, 

Forgetful  of  the  spring  when  Life  was  fair, 
Unheedful  of  the  winter  when  Life  dies! — 

I  dread  the  prairies  in  midsummer  glare! 

III. 

I  like  the  prairies  in  the  autumn  days, 

When  gold  and  russet  glint  th'e  frosted  grass, 
When  long  warm  sunbeams  lie  close  to  the  earth, 

Kissing  the  leafy  brown  pools  as  they  pass. 
I  like  the  tall  broom-weeds  all  silvered  o'er 

Like  carven  fretwork  on  Italian  vase 
Of  blue  enamel, — 'gainst  the  azure  sky, 

Outlined  along  the  low  bank's  muddy  base. 


64  LONE-STAR.  LIGHTS. 

I  like  the  dark,  kaleidoscopic  line 

Of  wild  geese  trending  southward,  in  the  lead 
Of  first  blue  norther;  and  the  red  sumachs 

Which,  wounded,  'gainst  the  thicket  lean  to  bleed. 
I  like  the  low  wail  in  the  northwest  wind 

Fresh  from  the  Rockies,  and  the  snow-clad  plain; 
I  like  the  crunching  of  the  crackled  ice 

Thin  as  a  wine-glass  is,  just  after  rain. 
I  like  the  plover's  piping,  and  the  clear, 

Soft  "  bob-white!"  of  the  partridge  in  the  grass; 
And  wild  duck  sailing  on  the  steely  ponds, 

Their  green  necks  scintillating  as  they  pass. 

So  resteth  Life,  at  harvest-time,  when  Peace 
Sings  in  the  heart,  and  fretful  dreams  allays, 

And  vain,  ambitious  longings,  and  regrets! — 
I  like  thr  prairies  in  the  autumn  days! 


IV. 

I  fear  the  prairies  when  old  Winter  comes, 

And  smites  and  sears  them  with  his  upas  breath 
Of  ice  and  silence;  and  flings  out  his  pall 

Of  snow,  and  hisses  in  the  wind's  voice  "  Death!' 
I  fear  those  great  expanses, — solemn,  white, 

And  rigid  as  a  mortal  body  wrapped 
In  linen  shroud;  with  stiffened  feet  below, 

And  pulseless  hands  on  pulseless  bosom  lapped. 
I  hear  the  lone,  lean  wolf's  appalling  cry, 

I  see  the  wild-cat  crouch  where  rabbits  pass, 
I  hear  the  night-owl  shriek  despairingly, 

And  starving  cattle  crunch  the  juiceless  grass. 
I  see  the  long,  dun  hay  all  southward  bend 


TEXAS  PRAIRIES.  65 

Before  the  blizzard's  sweep,  and  shivering,  sigh. 
I  see  the  dull  sheet-iron  curtain  shake, 

Back  of  the  pale  sun,  on  the  leaden  sky. 
I  see  no  fair  Beyond;  no  golden  West, 

No  rosy  East!     The  sun  seems  endless  set, 
While  up  against  the  north  stands  gaunt  Remorse, 

And  up  against  the  south,  black-veiled  Regret! 

So  cometh  winter  in  the  aspiring  heart, 

When  sets  the  sun  of  Hope,  and  Faith  sublime, 

When  temples  crumble  and  illusions  fade! — 
I  dread  the  prairies  in  the  winter-time! 


66  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


A  THANKSGIVING   POEM, 

Now,  while  the  Northern  world  lies  half  asleep 
And  half  awake,  in  Indian  summer's  haze, 

Smiling,  yet  listless,  like  a  rosy  child 

Just  wakened  in  the  firelight's  dazzling  blaze; — 

Now,  while  the  bright  logs  crackle  merrily, 

Texas,  I'll  "toss  a  bumper  off,"  to  thee! 

Now,  while  the  north  winds  strum  upon  the  pane, 
And  Jack  Frost  steals  on  tiptoe  o'er  the  land, 

Tossing  the  flecks  of  carmine  on  the  leaves, 
From  off  the  palette,  in  his  reckless  hand, 

(Tipping  my  cheeks — and  nose — right  saucily!) 

Texas,  I'll  lilt  a  brave  "hurrah!"  for  thee! 

Now,  while  the  happy  "  Yankee  "  families 
Rejoice  about  the  gay  Thanksgiving  board, 

With  thought  on  roasted  fowl  and  pumpkin  pie 
(And  eyes  uplifted  to  the  bounteous  Lord), — 

While  they  give  thanks  for  their  prosperity, 

Texas,  I'll  breathe  an  offering  for  thee! 

Thou  God  who  ruleth  in  the  North  and  South, 
And  keepeth  in  the  hollow  of  Thy  hand 

Thine  own,  in  spirit, — whatsoe'er  they  be 
In  politics, — in  all  Thy  ransomed  land, — 

On  my  heart's  glowing  altar,  fair  to  see, 

I  lift  my  sunny  home-land  up  to  thee! 


A  THANKSGIVING  POEM.  67 

Bless  all  the  people  in  her  sunlit  ways, 
From  dark  Red  River  to  the  Gulf  below, 

From  Rio  Grande  to  the  blue  Sabine, 

From  slope  magnolian  to  Panhandle  snow, — 

On  all  the  ground  that  Texas  foot  doth  press 

I,  kneeling,  ?all  thy  grace  and  tenderness! 

From  Mem'ry's  urn  I  lift  the  silver  lid, — 
I  smell  the  fragrance  of  the  prairies  wide, 

And  low,  sweet  valleys,  where  the  fertile  earth 
Lies,  since  the  harvest,  resting,  sanctified 

By  garnered  use!     I  almost  catch  the  breath 

Of  late  peach-blossoms,  lured  to  certain  death 

By  fickle  Autumn,  donning  Spring's  attire 

Of  mellow  winds,  and  new,  green  tender  grass,  - 

And  silly  wild-flowers,  on  the  lowly  sod, 

Kissed  into  blushes  as  bold  sunbeams  pass! — 

By  mock-bird's  song,  and  bluejay's  impudence, 

Tattling  his  sweet  fibs  on  the  old  rail  fence! 

I  yearn  for  home!  my  quick-chilled,  thin,  blue  blood 
Shrinks  from  the  winter,  in  this  dreary  land 

Oflce  and  snow!     'Tis  Death's  touch,  to  the  tips 
Of  all  the  fingers  on  each  busy  hand! 

The  sun  seems  frozen  in  the  light  of  day, 

And  sharp  winds  whistle  from  the  leaden  Bay! 

Vet  not  in  vain  I  sought  this  wondrous  East, 
In  scope,  resources,  and  its  wide  demand 

For  Science,  Literature,  Ideas,  Art, 

Gauged  fairly,  come  they  from  whatever  land! 

So,  grateful,  loving,  clasp  I  warm  hands  here, 

But  "heart  goes  back  to  Dixie,"  ever  dear! 


68  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 


FRAGMENT  FROM  A   ROMAN  TRAGEDY. 

DEDICATED  TO  MY  FRIEND  S.  M.  LAZARUS,  THE  ORIGINAL  AND 
ONLY  "  FABIAN,"  TERRELL,  TEXAS. 

SCENE — A  cell  or  dungeon,  containing  a  bed  and  a  table,  on  which  burns  an 
antique  lamp.  Fabian,  seated  in  meditation,  soliloquizes. 

AND  this  is  I,  Fabian,  who,  ten  short  weeks  ago,  trod 
ga)  iy  on  the  air  of  Forum,  Campus  Martius,  and  the  Baths! — 
Fabian,  whom  kings  and  Romans  envied,  whom  women  and 
the  gods  did  love;  whose  haughty  mien  bade  higher  titles 
stand,  nor  e'en  so  much  as  brush  his  garment's  hem;  whose 
tutored  eye  but  caught  the  swift-winged  glance  of  maid  or 
matron,  and  smiles,  like  moonlight  on  Campania,  broke, — 
blushes  like  spilled  Falerian  wine  on  damask  snow;  whose 
odorous  locks  Hyperion  might  have  craved;  whose  lightest 
word  held  captive  'trothed  or  spouse,  hanging  upon  his  tones 
with  nectar-melting,  passion-breathing  lips,  like  drunken  bees 
on  Colchian  honeycombs! 

Fabian!  who  at  the  Saturnalian  feasts  but  cast  an  eye 
on  gladiator's  brawn,  and  said  "So!  good!"  and  straightway 
sesterces  on  sesterces  piled,  like  Pelion  on  Ossa, — betting  high 
odds  on  such,  and  saying,  "  Fabian  hath  called  him  good. 
Forsooth,  the  gods  attend  on  Fabian's  choice;  he  wins!  " 

Fabian,  whose  lightest  finger-tips,  laid  in  a  woman's  palm, 
sent  thrill  on  thrill  to  chase  the  roses  o'er  her  rounded  cheek, 


FRAGMENT  FROM  A  ROMAN  TRAGEDY.          69 

—like  doves  that  shadow  on  the  sand  along  the  tawny  Tiber; 
whose  voice  the  consuls  and  the  fathers  heard,  and  smiled 
concessions  in  th'  affairs  of  state! — aye,  Fabian,  the  god  of 
Lucia's  heart,  keeper  of  her  sweet  soul,  ethereal,  fine,  that, 
quivering  in  the  rude  world's  clutch,  shrank  and  escaped,  on 
pinions  of  Aurora,  to  the  skies! 

Lucia,  my  maiden  with  the  tender  eyes,  the  fragrant  lips 
so  sensitive,  the  silken  hair,  and  clear  white  skin, — like  gleam 
of  marble  from  Pentelicus! 

Lucia,  who  smiled,  and  all  the  earth  grew  radiant;  whose 
airy  feet  on  blossoms  gently  pressed,  just  bruised  their  subtle 
odors  as  she  passed;  whose  taper  fingers  held  the  reins  of 
Love,  Ambition,  and  the  heart's  desires,  guiding,  restraining, 
comforting,  until  methought  earth's  ball  Olympus,  and  my 
self  thereon! 

Lucia,  who  looked  into  my  eyes,  that  evening  'neath  the 
moon,  and  said,  "  I  love  thee,  Fabian!"  and  all  the  gods  did 
lean  from  Jove's  high  mount  and  say,  "She  loves  thee,  Fa 
bian!" 

But  Lucia's  dead! — aye,  aye,  she's  very  dead!  Hence  these 
white  hairs  that  Sorrow  hath  defaced  with  ignominious 
semblance  of  old  age!  She's  dead,  I  say,  I  know,  I  feel;  and 
yet  the  heart  incredulous,  defiant,  cries,  "And  what  is 
dead!" 

I  know:  the  dead  are  cold.  Lucia  was  warm  as  sun-kissed 
seas  that  swooning  lie  within  the  red-hot  arms  of  Sirius — 
as  warm  and  languid  as  lily-leaves  upon  the  slumbrous 
Nile. 

The  dead  are  still !  They  answer  not  when  loved  ones  call; 
they  sigh  not,  thrill  not,  nor  responsive  smile;  and  Lucia  all 
atremble  was  with  life's  red  wine,  youth's  fire  and  move 
ment!  Aye,  the  dead  are  gone  eternal  from  oursight! — they 
lie,  with  worms  and  hideous  insects,  in  the  nether  earth,  while 
flowers  bloom  on  above,  seductive!  Liars,  she  is  i.ot  there! 


70  LONE-STAR  LIGHTS. 

Ye  gods  bear  witness  that  she  is  not  there!  but  here — here, 
on  this  fond  heart,  her  sunny  head  low  drooped,  her  yielding, 
pulsing  body  'gainst  my  own! 

Ha!  the  old  trick;  and  yet  how  real  it  seemed!  These 
ghosts  play  havoc  with  a  strong  man's  brain,  e'en  though  it 
be  a  timid  maiden's  wraith! 

Now  reason,  Fabian,  thus  and  thus.  Take  out  the  gleam 
of  madman  from  thine  eye,  the  painful  corrugations  from 
thy  brow.  There,  fold  thy  wild  hands  thus,  and  think.  Such 
things  can  be — have  been.  Ah!  that  thou  too  well  know'st. 

Why,  man,  thy  Lucia  was  but  mortal,  and  she  died:  that's 
all  there  is  to  say.  A  fever  fell  upon  her  tender  frame;  'twas 
strong  and  greedy,  she  was  young  and  weak.  It  sucked  her 
life-blood  up,  blanched  the  fair  skin;  the  lustrous  eye  did 
dim.  When  life  went  out,  she  lay  upon  thy  heart,  which  still 
beats  on,  unmindful  of  fhe  fact  that  it  hath  echoed  pulses 
from  the  other  shore! 

''So  strange  a  thing  is  life,  tenacious  of  itself!  The  heart 
breaks,  the  soul  sickens,  aye,  the  hair  grows  white,  torpid  the 
blood,  and  yet  we  live;  that  is,  breathe,  laugh,  and  cry;  eat, 
drink  and  sleep;  and  wake  because  there's  nothing  makes  us 
die. 

So  Lucia  died, — as  any  mortal  may, — and  she  was  buried. 
There  the  trouble  lay.  I  could  not  leave  her  tomb! — my 
heart's  best  chords  were  there,  twined  in  and  out,  between  the 
slim,  cold  fingers  in  that  grave;  and  when  they  raised  me  up, 
and  bore  my  fainting  body  hence,  all  those  chords  snapped: 
the  little,  clinging  fingers  would  not  yield,  and  they,  the  wise 
fools,  said,  "It  was  the  brain.  Poor  Fabian  is  mad!" 

Ha!  ha!  a  wondrous  joke,  indeed!  Fabian  mad!  a  ram 
bling  idiot  he — the  sanest,  proudest  Roman  of  them  all. 

And,  ha!  ha!  ha!  the  ayes  did  have  it  too,  and  locked  him 
up  within  this  madman's  cell, 

'Twas  horrible  at  first!  but  after-while  the  force  of  habit 


FRAGMENT  FROM  A  ROMAN  TRAGEDY.          71 

softened  agony.  Indeed,  where  is  the  use  in  being  free, 
when  a  man's  soul  is  prisoned  in  a  tomb  ? 

Ah!  Fate  is  kind.  My  Lucia  comes  ofttimes:  when  night 
and  darkness  guard  the  door,  she  noiseless  comes,  and  all  the 
gloomy  distance  rosy  grows;  these  walls  recede,  and  once 
again  we  stand  beneath  the  stars,  whose  pure  light  lies 
like  benedictial  smile  of  god  and  cherubim.  Her  garments 
white  are  'round  me,  and  her  breath,  like  zephyrs  from  the 
vale  of  Cashmere,  fragrant,  warm,  blows  on  my  cheek. 

Her  tender  eyes  beam  soft  yet  clear  into  mine,  own,  and 
sweet  lips  say,  "I  love  thee,  Fabian." 

Ah!  vile,  triumphant  demons!  when  I  awake,  clasping  the 
poisoned  air,  or  clinging  to  the  cold,  bare  walls,  I  shriek! — I 
shriek  and  curse.  Why  not  ?  And  then  the  keepers  sigh  and 
say,  "  Poor  lunatic!"  And  so,  you  see,  I'm  mad:  yes,  past  all 
doubt  or  cavil,  I  am  mad. 

(Oh!  had  they  known  enough  of  man  and  love  to  leave  me 
on  her  grave,  till  death  and  I  had  fought  the  battle  outj 

Why,  I  was  young,  and  life  would,  after-while,  have  poured 
some  balm  into  my  hungry  heart,  to  feed  upon  till  chance 
had  called  me  to  her  side  on  high. 

But,  gods  of  Caesar!  how  I  prate  while  Time  is  rushing  on 
his  winged  steeds  toward  day!  This  little  steel  [produces 
dagger}  shall  be  my  soul's  swift  chariot  to  the  gods! 

It  was  a  very  madman's  trick  indeed  that  hath  at  last 
seduced  this  dagger  from  the  wary  guard!  He  held  it  in  his 
hand  unconscious,  while  I,  in  mood  most  sane,  talked  feel 
ingly  of  war  and  foul  conspiracies:  how  Rome  was  bleeding 
in  the  clutch  of  tyrants;  of  Cataline,  Caesar,  Scylla.  Aye, 
how  very  sanely  did  I  prate  of  grave  suspicions,  seditions, 
bondage  for  the  poor,  till  he  grew  frantic,  clapped  his  for 
gotten  steel  upon  the  table  here,  and,  grasping  both  my  hands, 
swore  hot  faith  in  my  sanity,  abuse,  and  pledged  his  succor 
with  th' authorities! 


72  LONE-STAR.  LIGHTS. 

'  t 

Ah!  like  a  tigress  when  she  creeps  upon  her  prey,  so  crept 
my  swift  hand  to  the  weapon;  then,  concealing  safe  within 
my  tunic  thus,  I  started,  listened,  thrust  him  from  the  room, 
explaining  someone  coming,  and  the  fear  that  his  sympathy 
and  my  design  might  be  betrayed. 

Ha!  Fabian,  well  and  boldly  done!  Ho!  Death,  another 
offering  at  thy  shrine!  Soft — turn  the  light  so!  Aye,  but  thou 
art  keen,  my  slender  beauty;  thou'lt  find  the  quickened  heart, 
like  flash  of  Jove's  own  fire^  and  ope  the  way  to  Lucia! 
[S/abs  himself ^\ 

Sweet,  I  come.  Reach  down  thy  gentle  hand  and  take  mine 
own;  'tis  dreary  dying  in  a  madman's  cell.  Oh!  soft  the 
moonlight  on  the  Tiber  lies,  and  soft  thy  smile  when  sweet 
lips  say,  '•  I  love  thee,  Fabian!"  Hence  come  I, — and  the  gods 
forgive!  The  world  was  black  without  thee!  Now,  thy— 
lips! — say — once  again—"  I— love— thee — Fa — "  [ffe  dies.~] 


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